On sexism, the tough old broads had it right

When professional relations veer off-piste, women must seize power

The Lord Rennard controversy – which originated as a simple tale of a tubby Lib Dem power-broker alleged to have wandering hands – has gained force over time, like a fermenting casket that suddenly explodes with an enormous bang. Now we’re all coated in Rennard-related matter, and everyone is stained, furious and arguing. The Lib Dems are scrapping among themselves. Rennard refuses to apologise – fearing, perhaps, a legally precarious aftermath – while Nick Clegg keeps demanding that the suspended peer say sorry. Meanwhile, any male MP or journalist who walks briskly into this mess quickly finds himself in a treacherous bog of sexual politics, being pelted with metaphorical rotten eggs by angry women. On l’affaire Rennard, Venus and Mars are badly misaligned.

Chris Davies MEP observed that Lord Rennard was “no Jimmy Savile”. The Guardian’s seasoned political writer, Michael White, wrote a blog urging “proportion”, while remarking that the likes of Barbara Castle would have seen this stuff as a sideshow. He, too, observed: “It’s not in the Savile league, never mind a matter for the Old Bailey.” The arguments of both men were widely interpreted as: “Calm down, dear.” White soon found himself in a Twitter spat of increasing ferocity with Louise Mensch, Stella Creasy MP and Sally Bercow, among others, in which he was – I thought unfairly – caricatured as someone who thought harassment didn’t matter. I would certainly describe myself as a feminist, but in this case I have some sympathy with the thought processes on Mars.

Why shouldn’t White and Davies observe that Rennard isn’t Jimmy Savile? I said so myself the last time I wrote about Rennard. Post-Savile, in the midst of Operation Yewtree, there is a feverish, volatile climate around historic sex offences, some of it justified. Yet, at a time when the catch-all phrase “sex pest” is seemingly applied to everyone from a mildly lecherous colleague to a predatory paedophile, we must clarify distinctions about who did what to whom and in what context. A speculative hand on the leg of an adult woman, however creepy, is not an outrage akin to the molestation of a nine-year-old child. Of course, that doesn’t make it irrelevant.

The allegations against Lord Rennard, which he still denies, come from 11 women who say, variously, that in social situations he repeatedly touched their knees and legs, and issued meaningful invitations to his hotel room. Here’s what nobody alleges he did: threaten them with squashed career prospects if they didn’t respond, speak nastily or attempt to use physical force when rebuffed. The investigating QC concluded a harassment case would not stand up in court, but found the women “broadly credible”. I do too, and the situation was complicated by Rennard’s influential position; still, the alleged behaviour seemingly unfurled in that murky territory between social unease and criminal offence.

Like most women, I’ve experienced the occasional unwanted workplace advance, a sudden freight train of weirdness rumbling inexorably down a track. There was the time I worked as a waitress in a Paris restaurant and the miniature, middle-aged owner – normally strikingly brusque – inexplicably decided it was the evening to pour me a glass of wine and try to fumble with my chest. I convinced him otherwise. The next day, blessedly back to brusque, we carried on as if nothing had happened.

We hear a lot about the antediluvian sexual politics of Westminster, but I suspect that in British workplaces beyond it – particularly in lower-paid, more transient positions – women have even scantier protection against harassment and need to deploy quick-fire tactics to stop it. In an ideal world, people in positions of power wouldn’t get touchy-feely with junior colleagues who are clearly uncomfortable. It’s wrong, we can all agree, but humanity isn’t ideal. Unless we want to start sacking “offenders” on accusation alone, formal investigations are gruelling for all involved, and – as any employment lawyer will tell you – “victims” often dread a showdown: they just want the behaviour to stop.

So how should employers deal with minor but problematic lechery?

If the behaviour is repetitive, it’s up to higher authorities to curb it. Bridget Harris, one of Rennard’s accusers, said Clegg was long aware of the allegations. If he had more guts, he might have had stronger words privately with the peer years ago, and avoided this burgeoning lunacy. But I also think that, should professional relations veer off-piste, it is essential that women seize immediate power of their own.

When an unwanted hand strays, sharply replace it on its owner’s leg, with whatever verbal censure you feel is appropriate. White had a point: women can still learn a lot from tough old broads like Castle, who blazed through the days when sexism was more commonplace. That doesn’t mean we want those days back.

Hooked on the zombie walk

We’re regressing back to the shape of our slouching Neanderthal ancestors, it seems – but without their natural cunning – and it’s all the fault of the smartphone. A study last week confirmed that many of us are visibly hunched because we are examining texts and other social media. Our heads are dropped down, our spines out of alignment, and we blunder through streets impervious to the dangers of lampposts and cars.

On occasion, it can strike one very sharply just what these little devices have done to us. For centuries, people strolled around looking at the sky, the windswept trees, the varied faces of passing strangers. I lived in the decades BS (Before Smartphones), and we glimpsed fascinating things everywhere.

The other day, when I emerged from a Tube station into the sunlight, every single person I saw was frowning down at their mobile device, heatedly jabbing at its little screen. It was like Invasion of the Body Snatchers. I’ve been guilty of it myself, I know. “I see you’re doing the zombie walk,” a friend remarked last week, before I put it away, a little bit ashamed.

I suppose that, eventually, natural selection will play its part, as those who walk and text fall prey to all manner of untimely disasters, from falling scaffolding to unseen potholes, the modern equivalent of a stampeding mammoth.

The anecdotal evidence of phone-related peril is mounting, however: last December, a Taiwanese tourist walked straight off a pier in Melbourne while checking her Facebook page. She couldn’t swim, but she managed to float until police fished her out of the water unharmed. They said there was no need for a lost property report: she had held tightly on to her phone for the entire time.

Scottish Widow is a femme fatale

There’s a new Scottish Widow on the scene, a striking brunette called Amber Martinez, aged 24, and the fourth woman to wear the swirling black-and-red cloak over the past 27 years. The company was established in 1815 as a fund for securing provision to widows, sisters and other female dependants during the Napoleonic Wars, but the return of a replacement widow to television screens is apparently part of a “brand refresh”. Like many people, I’ve been both intrigued by, and suspicious of, the Scottish Widow since childhood. Mourning becomes her. Grief has not dimmed the pearlescent glow of her complexion. Why is she wearing that enigmatic smile? Did he really fall, or was he pushed?

Last year, it was revealed that thousands of Scottish Widow pension savers had their savings secretly invested in lacklustre funds after senior executives took a decision to switch them from riskier options to more predictable alternatives that could be relied upon to underperform.

I’m sure the company is looking for ways to improve its game. But, quite apart from that, if I were a man and saw the Scottish Widow inching towards me, looking so radiantly bereaved, I’m not sure I’d show her my life insurance policy.